


Uncontainable

by heloluv



Series: I am the Light [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is Hot (Literally), Aziraphale is a Ball of Fire, Aziraphale is beautiful, Canon Compliant, Crowley and Aziraphale Need to Use Their Words, Crowley is a Fire Resistant Demon, Do You See Where I am Going with This, Happy Ending, I Will Use Words on their Behalf, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Repressed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Crowley (Good Omens), Your Honour I Love Them Both
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heloluv/pseuds/heloluv
Summary: For millennia, Aziraphale has covered up the golden marks on his corporation that nod to his true form. Every once in a while he must lock himself away to let them shine, else he runs the risk of overloading himself and endangering the things he cares about most.Crowley has always yearned to know what it is that Aziraphale does on those occasions when he locks himself away in the bookshop for weeks at a time. Usually he can't get close enough to find out: this time, something has changed.A two-parter in which Aziraphale faces the mortifying ordeal of being known, Crowley learns the truth about their past, and the two of them experience the wonders of a love that is bold, bright and beautiful.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: I am the Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158476
Comments: 7
Kudos: 59





	Uncontainable

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by a Twitter thread. Whilst Aziraphale has his gold accessories to serve as an outward indication of his angelic essence, we never really find out if he has any permanent markings that are tied to his true form. I liked the thought of him having gold markings that he has to keep concealed, like Uriel and Michael do when we see them on Earth. This is my exploration of that.
> 
> Thanks as always go to sapphiclemon for their swift and skilful beta reading.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He had been one of the first to walk the skies. He had helped to build the Kingdoms of Heaven.

Aziraphale never spoke of his early assignments. The ones he completed back when everything was still new and there weren’t enough angels for a hierarchy yet. He had done some design work: creating the shape of light had been delegated to him. Focussed and gentle, he had crafted the sunbeams. He had watched as the star makers showered time and space with their glittering works of art and he had tried to do the beauty of the cosmos justice when he had built the thick rays that shone from them. Aziraphale was a modest, quiet artist - but somewhere deep down, he was still proud of the way he’d split shafts of light into beautiful prisms of colour when they hit certain surfaces. When God had announced the first ‘rain-bow’, he’d not expected his own work to be placed right there in the sky for all to see. Though Aziraphale was not to know this, the way he had felt when he had seen it was the celestial equivalent of a child watching their parents pinning a particularly striking piece of finger-painting on the fridge. And, in just the way that he was proud of his colourful spectrums of light, God was proud of him - one of Her finest creations. Humble, modest, compassionate: he had been one of Her favourites right from the start.

Yes, Aziraphale was one of the first angels. The Beginning was a pleasant era of growth and creativity, before the heavenly host had been split off into sects: ‘guardians’, ‘archangels’, ‘cherubim’. The experience of making light had given him things that other angels didn’t have. It made him empathetic, always thinking about what others could see and where he needed to send light to illuminate the dark. It made him hard working, driven to add to the beauty of the stars rather than dull their shine. It made him fussy, a perfectionist who tuned the swirl of every dust mote to the one beside it until they danced through his light like a symphony, in perfect harmony. It gave him an eye for all things beautiful and tangible: he had once felt a sunbeam brush against his tongue, and the sweet, tangy taste of warmth on his lips had given him hunger. Aziraphale was the angel who helped the universe come into colour: he had seen his fellow entities smile and laugh, and he had wanted to give them the world. It was in the very beginning that his work gave him a soul unlike that of any other angel.

Many, including Aziraphale, had eventually been forced to forfeit their favourite jobs in order to commit to their assigned role in God’s plan. Some hadn’t been happy: they had revolted, then they had fallen. Aziraphale had never had the chance to design again. He was instead trained as a warrior and when the time came, he was posted on Earth. 

When Aziraphale had turned to see Crowley standing by his side on the wall, he had remembered. He couldn’t help but remember. Millennia ago, he had been there to see Crowley cast the North Star into the abyss, ready to join some galaxy or another. The craftsmanship was so beautiful. Crowley did not make stars at the same pace as the other angels, preferring to take his time and make breathtaking pieces of art that would last for eons where others would burn out. The twinkling face of the star had taken Aziraphale’s proverbial breath away: determined for it to be seen by all, he had raised his arm and granted Crowley’s work the brightest light he could muster. Silently, the two of them had gazed up at what they had made; they stayed long after other angels left, watching together as it pulsed and fluttered through outer space. Crowley had smiled at Aziraphale before walking away: Aziraphale had held onto that smile ever since. 

Both of them had been reassigned. Heaven’s two greatest artists, removed from duty for retraining. Crowley, incensed, dared to ask why. Aziraphale saw what happened to his companion, then he escaped to weep alone and resigned himself to wondering in silence for eternity. Eventually he had stored it all away, his questions and his fear and his rage, bottling it all up inside. Those memories of ages past played on a showreel in his mind when he saw Crowley: he pushed them away and tightened the cork on the bottle holding his pain. But still, something warm inside his chest revelled in the sight of a smile on Crowley’s lips again.

As the years had gone by, the questions and the memories had veered their heads a few times. It had become apparent that Crowley remembered naught of Aziraphale. No matter: Aziraphale was content to listen to Crowley point out the occasional star and say ‘I made that one’. He bit his tongue every time, holding back

 _I_ _know. I watched you do it. I remember the way your fingers moved as they shaped the jagged edges. I felt the love you poured into them with my own hands. I think about the way you breathed life into them every night as I sit awake, alone._

“Oh really? Well, it’s ever so lovely.”

“Shut up. Lift home?”

One night, on a late stroll through the vast gardens of the American Diplomat, Crowley had pointed up at the North Star. ‘I made that. Took forever.’ Aziraphale had waited silently for a moment, but nothing more had come. Two simple sentences, enough to tear a heart in two. A story - their story - recounted with a void where he should have stood, giving light to Crowley’s shining darkness. 

“It’s nice.” Aziraphale managed to choke out.

“Bright. So bright. Someone up there must’ve liked that one.” Crowley had pondered.

Aziraphale had excused himself. His legs had almost given way: he'd rounded the nearest corner and stumbled into a miracle, only just managing to get himself back to the bookshop in one piece. Trembling, he’d collapsed to the floor of the shop and sobbed to himself, lying above the summoning circle that served as a constant reminder of his duty to God, and all he had sacrificed to fulfill it. 

* * *

And so that was Aziraphale’s true form. Light. A thousand striking rays burning up the air around, ready to bless or to smite as his angelic soul so decided. God had thought it fitting - giving him the shape of his own design, built to bring brightness to the universe. It had made him one of the more difficult angels to contain in a corporation. In Heaven it hadn’t mattered: the molten golden cracks that ran across expanses of his skin had been a sign, a reminder that he was honourable and skilled. They were rivers of shining ochre running over the top of his strong, sturdy body and they lit up like the dawn when he sang in the choir. They thrummed and sparkled when he performed miracles. They burnt with pure fire when he fought and they glowed like the door to eternal life when he healed the sick. He looked like all the sweetest things about the universe shaped into a form, pieces glued together with liquid sunshine.

But he didn’t look quite human. 

  
  


“You’ll have to cover them up somehow. Use miracles if needs be.”

Gabriel was briefing him on his new duties: guard the gate. Look trustworthy. Look human. There were other angels fussing around him as he spoke to his colleague, pinning his robes so they hung just right. 

“All the time?” Aziraphale could already feel the stress of the upkeep of a continuous miracle setting in. He shuddered at the thought. “Is there no help you can give me? I’ll have to be on guard all the time, it won’t do any good to be distracted, focussing on a concealment miracle.”

“You’ll be fine, Aziraphale. You’re Heaven’s most accomplished guardian.”

_I’m more than that. I could’ve made every Kingdom of Heaven shine just as I do._

Gabriel continued talking over Aziraphale’s racing thoughts. “You’re strong enough to do this. God believes in you and I do too.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course. You’re right. Thank you, Gabriel.”

“Always.”

  
  


When Gabriel had said ‘always’, he had not meant it. It had only taken one short moment for everything to go wrong. A single bright afternoon, when Aziraphale’s soul was aching from the strain of keeping his true form tightly concealed inside his corporation, every shining crack plastered over and invisible to the humans. He’d just needed a second to recuperate: stepping off into a clearing, he’d let his guard down to rest. He'd curled up against a verdant hedge and allowed himself to glow, regaining his drained strength. It was then that Crowley had emerged from below, drawing Eve to the tree and gifting humanity to the Earth. 

Gabriel had not believed in Aziraphale after that. 

* * *

Victorian fashion. Smart, stylish, dapper. Layers, buttons, clothes that covered skin. When the world had moved past robes and wraps into the ages of tailored garments that covered his markings without a miracle, Aziraphale’s existence had become a lot less stressful. Suddenly it was only the tiny, tapered ends of the golden threads that crept above his collar or down past his cuffs that needed his powers to be kept out of sight. He’d found that he could go far longer without needing a break, or pushing himself too far and having close calls in public. Those moments had never been fun, when some human pointed out the intricate spindles that wove around his wrist and up the sides of his neck, across to his adam's apple. It always required memory wipes and paperwork. Rather embarrassing. It was worse when the humans liked it, when they got too strong a whiff of his pure essence and advanced on him. Those times, the people he passed fell in love with him in droves as he fought his way through crowds to get home and lock himself away to recharge. 

He had to keep himself in check. He knew how light worked. Like all of the brightest stars he had bestowed his gift upon, Aziraphale could flare. Just like he often had in heaven, when he sang or laughed or fought and his skin lit up with power. He knew that when he allowed himself to feel too strongly, his inner fire cut through. It ran like heat to the surface of his corporation, shining through the rifts in his skin. They could become too bright, melt away the veneer of his miracles and singe the fine fabrics of his clothes until he shone like a supernova, expanding and swallowing everything in his path. Aziraphale knew that he had already teetered on the edge of destroying the things close to him too many times. He’d baulked at injustices and sinkholes had opened. He’d heard Crowley recount the story of his fall and, in his fury, he had almost vanished a whole decade of human history: he’d writhed on the floor of his shop, screaming until he reined himself in; the space-time continuum had only just remained intact. The story of the North Star was the final straw: when Aziraphale nearly tore down half of Soho with his burning sobs, he knew his light, untamed, was still a danger to everything he loved. So he sat up, straightened his bowtie, and vowed to stay distant and aloof. 

He couldn’t cry, or harmonise, or judge. He couldn’t get angry. He couldn’t be vulnerable. He couldn’t fall in love. If he did, he would burn up like a dying star and become a black hole, sucking everything around him into the void. The Earth wasn’t built like heaven; it wasn’t made to hold something like Aziraphale. 

Six thousand years is plenty of time to master the art of self-control. To become an expert in repression and self-flagellation.

“I don’t even like you.” “We’re not friends.”

_Stay away from me, or I will fail. I will become unhinged, open up like the jaws of a serpent and eat down all that we have built until there is nothing left for either of us anywhere in this vast universe._

Aziraphale was made of light. Light that was, in truth, too bright to be bottled up in a corporation of five foot ten, wrapped in cashmere and tartan. He was beautiful, and he was tired, and he had a solid lump of swallowed pain sitting at his core. Light is not a containable substance: it expands, needing to be free. The way he had to exist couldn’t go on forever: he needed some time to shine, else he was bound to tear at his tailored seams.

* * *

It was a weary Sunday not long after the non-ending of the world. Aziraphale could feel his skin throbbing and itching as he sat by the lake in St. James’ Park with Crowley, feeding the ducks. He loathed to leave, but he knew he needed to.

“Well dear boy, it’s been a wonderful day. But I must get back to the shop.”

Crowley, who was sat with his limbs strewn about like the marvellous little temptress that he was, turned his head to Aziraphale. ‘I could come with you, we could have a drink?’

This was the difficult part. It had set them back before, Aziraphale’s mysterious exits and prolonged silences in which he boarded up his windows and shedded his layers, letting streams of gold spread up his neck and caress his ears, crawl down his hands and twine around his fingers. He spent weeks, sometimes months, glowing soft like candlelight to let his pent up lumens go. After doing so, he always felt a new entity when he pulled his clothes back on and stepped out into the sun. Crowley always seemed put out on their reunion, clearly wishing he knew where the angel went for so long: Aziraphale couldn’t explain, he couldn’t tell the story. He couldn’t face the fact that they had worked in tandem, making stars, and where this had shaped Aziraphale, eventually coming to define his true form, Crowley couldn’t remember it. No: some things had always been too dangerous to explain. So he simply reminded the demon that when he had disappeared for a century, Aziraphale had taken him to The Dorchester for a meal when they had finally seen one another again. Of course, Aziraphale always left some of the story out: the part around halfway through Crowley’s extended absence in which he had had too much wine, drowned his sorrows at the Gentlemen’s club, and almost decimated half of the city when he had dared to acknowledge his loneliness.

 _‘It’s sweet that you missed me,’_ said Aziraphale. Crowley always feigned a shudder at that, pretending it wasn’t true. _‘But really, dearest. It wasn’t the end of the world now, was it.’_

  
  


“Perhaps not tonight. Soon, though.” As he saw Crowley’s face drop, Aziraphale supposed that things could be different now. They were free, weren’t they? Surely he could tell Crowley. His confidante, the one who had held his heart for so long. But Aziraphale was weakened right now: his thoughts were fuzzy at the edges and the scratching beneath his clothes was growing more insistent. In truth, he still wasn’t sure he could tell him. How do you explain to someone that the truest part of who you are is tied to the first time you saw them smile? That your being is built in the shape of the first act of service you did for them, eons ago, alone together under a blanket of stars? Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. How to warn his best friend that he was like a ball of fire, always one step away from engulfing everything he loved. That his body was shot through with rays of gleaming sun, and he needed some time alone to let them burn out so that he didn’t cause a disaster.

These things were all true, but ultimately it came down to this: Aziraphale had read all the books in the world and he still didn’t know how to say ‘ _I love you_ ’.

“Alright. Lift home, then?”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, who was gazing across at Aziraphale with worried focus. "That would be marvellous. Thank you."

* * *

They spent the ride in relative silence, Aziraphale using all of his might to contain the itch ravaging his neck. The marks beneath his clothes had already begun to light up and, aided by his own self-awareness, he could smell a hint of burning cotton in the air. He was antsy, dazed. Not himself.

Crowley watched as the angel staggered up to the bookshop. He knew Aziraphale well. He at least knew everything he had been permitted to know: he had committed Aziraphale’s stories to memory and mapped the angel's personality out like an expert cartographer. Still, he knew that there were secrets he wasn’t privy to. He had always tried his best to be understanding when Aziraphale locked himself away. Admittedly it didn’t always work: Aziraphale always sensed his discontent when they finally saw one another again and was swift to remind him that, angel that he was, he had always been perfectly fine with Crowley’s naps. He was right, of course, Crowley didn’t have the right to feel angry - Aziraphale never forced explanations out of him and Crowley was determined to show the angel the same level of respect. The real problem was that _anger_ wasn’t what Crowley felt. 

The demon had never had anything to lose other than the angel, and so he’d been an open book ever since they met. Whenever Crowley disappeared, Aziraphale knew why. The same couldn’t be said when Aziraphale shuttered his windows and locked Crowley out. It wasn’t that Crowley was _angry_ at the angel, nowhere near. He just wanted desperately to _know_ him, just as Aziraphale knew all of Crowley.

There was something that hung unsaid between them, Crowley had discerned this. He saw it in Aziraphale’s eyes, how close the angel sometimes came to letting Crowley in on his secret. The events always panned out in the same way: Aziraphale would start to worry at his collar, fiddling with his clothes as if struck down by the onset of a sudden fever. He’d tune out, his usual focus and eloquence fading. It always scared Crowley to see him so distant. It had never been his place to ask what was going on, but some part of him had hoped that Aziraphale would tell him now that they were free of their old responsibilities. As he watched the angel stumble up his own front step and fumble frantically with the door handle, the usual worried lump formed in his throat. Looking close, he saw the trembling of Aziraphale’s hands and tried in vain to swallow down his fear.

_Is he sick? Can angels be sick? He looks so scared. He looks warm, uncomfortable. He looks like he’s suffocating._

_Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Why won’t you let me know you? There is nothing you could ever say that would detract from how much I adore you._

Aziraphale finally got inside and closed the door with a slam, not looking back for a second. Whatever this was, today’s was a terrible bout - Crowley knew as he saw the boards appear in the windows with a rushed miracle. That was it: Aziraphale locked in, Crowley locked out.

Crowley waited for the final blow: the wards designed to keep him out. He felt them every time, washing over him like a storm of ice, prickling his skin and always triggering the same thought: _he doesn’t want you here_. He had taken to waiting for them to come; despite being created to deter him, they still felt electric on his skin. Aziraphale’s magic, tailored with him in mind, moulding to the shape of his body. They arrived, and the miracles felt intoxicating as they ran down his spine, wrapping around his legs, taking him in a choke-hold. They smelt exactly like the angel and Crowley leant into it, feeling the sweet press of Aziraphale’s form against his back, imagining the tendrils of magic that were enveloping him to be Aziraphale’s cotton clad arms, wrapping around and holding him in a tender embrace. The wards were always gentle. So very _Aziraphale_. The feeling was bittersweet, like a poisoned kiss. He allowed himself to be encased in the angel for a moment, floating in his bright, burning ether. Usually, after a moment, the comforting feelings disappeared and left him high and dry.

Crowley sat wrapped in angelic warmth, braced for the drop. But no drop came. He felt the arms of Aziraphale’s essence winding their way across his skin, coiling around him in a serpentine twist and settling, holding him firm. Aziraphale was everywhere, rocking Crowley in a cradle of his beautiful, sweet, viscous power. 

_This is new_ , thought Crowley, his heart racing. _Something’s changed_.

* * *

Aziraphale practically collapsed into the shop, panting for air as his skin burnt up in celestial flames. He clicked his fingers, the shop going dark in an instant as boards blocked the windows; he began to tear at his clothes, discarding them without an inch of grace. His coat lay crumpled by the rack, his waistcoat thrown across a pile of tomes. The heat brought him to his knees and he trembled as he moved to sit, back against a bookshelf, pulling at his bow tie. 

“Fuck!” He swore, cursing the layers that kept him oh-so-safely covered up. He had a process: he knew which parts of his outfit to prioritise lest they get incinerated in the blast. The braces came down without ceremony and he groaned with effort as he unclasped the buttons of his trousers, leaving them behind in a pile with his prized Balmoral boots. He’d had those for years and he wasn’t about to turn them into dust now thank-you-very-much. The shirt would probably have to go in the bin, he already knew from the distinct scent of medium-rare 1940s starched collar that was permeating his nostrils. Still, he tugged it off. 

“Dear _God_ ”, he gasped, his whole body tensing as he felt the first dam break. It was akin to how he imagined being struck by a red hot poker might feel and it always started at his left shoulder, golden streaks breaking through his smooth skin and shooting in wild, jagged patterns across his back. He moaned, dragging himself to the comfort of the sofa where he lay in his cotton undergarments, gasping and contorting as the light broke through.

The first part always happened fast, like the sudden break of dawn after the longest night. Both the pain and the heat subsided quickly once he stopped tamping his essence down. Soon after that he settled: finally comfortable, nothing hidden. The cracks in his skin made Aziraphale look wholly ethereal. They pulsed, glowing, the golden blood of an angel running beneath them. He shone like a beacon, lighting up the dusky shop brighter than anything the skylight could let in. After a while Aziraphale sighed, sitting up and tugging his undershirt off. He looked down at himself, discarding the charred white cotton. 

“Another perfectly good undershirt ruined!” He sulked, unclipping his sock garters and divesting himself of his tartan socks. He was still warm to touch, and there was nothing for him to do but wait until he faded. He sighed and began to collect his clothes, folding and hanging them. There was no point in dressing again: it would make him uncomfortable. Besides, he spent all of his time buttoned up. This was the only chance he ever got to bare his skin with no caveats: he needed to cherish it.

So Aziraphale stood shining like the sun in only his cotton underpants, holding up his shirt to see if it was salvageable.

“Not too bad”, he thought aloud. “I could get it fixed-”

* * *

Crowley hadn’t been able to pull the car away. Something was drawing him in, beckoning. Aziraphale’s essence was calling to him where it usually tried to push him away. He was as worried as he was pleased by the sudden change. It was true that he always came by at some point during the angel’s absence to see whether or not he could get into the shop and check on him, so why not do it now? He flung open his car door and felt a stifling wall of heat slam into his chest, heady and thick. He waded through it, feeling the buzz of something mighty hanging in the air. By the time he was nearing the door of the bookshop, he could feel the winds of a celestial power storm whipping around his corporation. Some miracle was redirecting the humans away from this corner of Soho, he could sense it. _Similar_ , Crowley supposed, _to the one that usually drives me away_. The air was electrified with Aziraphale and Crowley bathed in it gladly. 

_Angel_ , he thought, gazing up at the shopfront with wonder. _What on Earth are you doing in there?_

As he wondered, the winds started to subside and the heat abated a little. With caution, he approached the doors.

_They’ll be locked. Always locked when he gets like this._

He reached out and pushed on the latch: the door clicked open, a gentle breeze still swirling around Crowley’s feet as he stepped inside. 

He was about to call out for his friend when he saw it. A golden glow radiating out from somewhere behind the stacks, near the sofas. He crept forward, ready to pounce on any intruders. When he rounded the shelves he froze on the spot, arrested by what he saw.

Aziraphale. His Aziraphale, standing in nothing but his cotton-white underwear, lighting up the whole of the room. Crowley's lips parted in awe, his eyes scanning down the angel’s form, all breath suspended in his lungs as he took in the vision before him. Great rifts of light trailed across Aziraphale’s skin, beginning at one of his shoulders and zig-zagging across his back, onto his limbs and around to his front. The glowing markings looked like fissures in the surface of the angel, precious scars that sewed together every single stunning part of him. The sight was striking: Crowley's eyes took in the splits of light and the way they dipped and dove over the peaks and valleys of Aziraphale’s body, highlighting every ripple of strength that lay atop the angel's bones. Broad, sturdy shoulders. Thick upper arms. A set of calves built well enough to climb right back up to the heavens he came from. He looked like a work of art, every soft curve and bold angle that made him up accentuated by the beautiful, bright marks that travelled through him.

The shimmering streaks disappeared into Aziraphale’s waistband and emerged on his thighs: Crowley felt his cheeks pink when he noticed. He pulled his eyes back up, following the veins of power that skirted up the nape of the angel’s neck and tickled the curls that usually brushed against his collar. The light emanating from Aziraphale made his hair shine platinum, and it was extraordinary. Crowley wanted to touch. He wanted to run his fingers across the skin, trace the patterns with his hands and feel the soft flesh of the angel’s neck that was cut through with fine lines of gold. The markings of a principality, a holy guardian. But these were so unique, unlike any that Crowley had ever seen before. Aziraphale looked exquisite.

A body built and trained to fight and protect that was now encased in a layer of love. The way Aziraphale liked to be, enjoying fine wine and delicious meals with Crowley. This phenomenal creature, this angel of the Lord all bright and beautiful - he _always_ chose Crowley.

Finally, the demon decided to speak. 

* * *

“Aziraphale?”

The voice was soft and dazed, but Aziraphale still turned with a mighty start. He flared in his anxiety and Crowley stepped back, shielding his eyes. Aziraphale’s heart dropped as he saw his friend, standing near the shelves and bracing to protect himself from Aziraphale.

“Crowley, what are you-” he faltered, trying to gather himself so he didn’t open up a chasm in the Earth in his stress. He fumbled for his clothes, acutely aware that Crowley had never seen him like this. Nobody had, not in millennia. Not since he’d left Heaven to start his work on Earth. “Why are you here?” Aziraphale panicked, unable to function for long enough to dress. “How did you get in?”

Crowley could have wept at the sound of Aziraphale’s voice. The tell-tale crack in his pitch that told Crowley just how ashamed Aziraphale was of being seen. The angel sounded disappointed in himself, and Crowley quickly realised that the warm, tingling hold of Aziraphale’s magic hadn’t been the invite he’d thought it to be. 

_You’ve seen him._ Crowley thought. _Let him see you too_.

“Aziraphale…”

The way that Crowley spoke his name set Aziraphale alight: he felt exposed as the rush of his sparkling blood made the strips of light on his body shimmer and ripple. Crowley almost gasped as he watched the spindles of gold that traced around to the front of Aziraphale’s neck shine. Pulses of light ran down the thicker fractures that lay on his chest or came around his obliques onto his stomach. Everything about Aziraphale looked magnificent, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to be absorbed by the angel and live within the chinks of power that got to sit atop his skin at every moment.

Crowley soldiered on. “I needed to know if you were alright.”

Aziraphale was tense. “Well. Here I am. Now you know, don’t you.”

Crowley allowed his arm to drop: Aziraphale was glowing, and Crowley could see the rush of the angel’s heartbeat in the fluid, vibrant way that the cracks in his form shone. “You’re-”

“Blinding! It isn’t _safe_ for you here you fool, why must you always put yourself in danger?” Aziraphale’s heart wrenched as he thought about the prospect of hurting Crowley and he steeled himself, pain shooting through his limbs as he tamed his light to protect his friend. “You need to _leave_. Now.”

“Aziraphale”, it was hardly a whisper. The whole blasted affair fell into place, finally making sense in Crowley’s mind. The secrecy. The wards. The way the angel always acted before he disappeared. Aziraphale was _afraid_. Afraid of what his holy light might do to a demon. Crowley adored him so fervently. 

“Please, Crowley!” Aziraphale was begging now, nearly doubled over at the ache of dimming himself.

But Crowley wasn’t scared, nor was he in danger. Knowing as much, he stood facing his friend and reached out his hand.

“What are you-"

The two of them fell silent as Crowley slowly passed his fingertips through one of the sharp, bright beams that was radiating from Aziraphale. There was no burning. There was no sinkhole opening up to swallow them. Crowley stepped closer, turning his whole hand under the light of the angel’s sun, which grew brighter as Aziraphale silently, tentatively began to relax. The two of them watched, transfixed, as the silvery outline of Crowley’s scales shimmered in the ether. They looked beautiful, shining under that which Aziraphale had created all those years ago.

Crowley whispered softly, his body loosening as he watched the pain start to leave Aziraphale’s form. “You’re not going to hurt me. You never would.” 

Aziraphale looked at him with hazel eyes, giving Crowley all of his truth without saying a word, baring his secrets on his skin.

“It’s beautiful.” Crowley’s eyes traced down over the angel’s form. Solid, strong. So unbelievably gorgeous. “You’re-”

“Unsightly. I know.” Aziraphale sighed, turning away. He felt an overwhelming mixture of relief and shame, his own self-consciousness wracking his mind. He fisted his hands in the singed fabric of his shirt and tried to stay calm. He didn’t know why he felt so vulnerable: he liked his shape. He even liked his essence. But Crowley. How could Crowley feel, seeing him stood here like this? 

“No. You’re resplendent.”

Aziraphale’s head lifted in an instant at Crowley’s words: his heart leapt in his chest as he heard two soft thuds on the ground. He turned where he stood and saw Crowley on his knees, gazing up at Aziraphale. 

Worship. Adoration. Open, bold, unabashed love.

When Aziraphale spoke, his angelic voice rang around the room and sang out in the very same ether that part of Crowley was still suspended in, being cradled by Aziraphale’s soul.

“Crowley, my darling. I am no God. You need never kneel at my feet.”

“Let me. Let me see you.”

So Aziraphale did. He stepped back and in an instant the room was awash in a flood of light, beautiful prisms breaking and fanning out across surfaces as the beams intersected. There in the centre was Aziraphale, delicate gold streaks set into his skin in the disjointed manner of a lightning storm, all originating at one strong shoulder. Here was his truth, here was his all. Still, two hopeful hazel eyes under a head of unruly curls. Arms by his sides, hands aglow with the history of lighting up a billion stars. Showing his skin but for the cotton underwear that hugged his hips. Suspended just feet above his head, the North Star shone.

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two to come! Thank you for reading.


End file.
